


Walk a Mile

by Rikku



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:14:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23855188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikku/pseuds/Rikku
Summary: Reynauld keeps giving Dismas gifts. It takes Dismas a while to figure out why, but then, Reynauld's not the most obvious.
Relationships: Dismas/Reynauld (Darkest Dungeon)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 122





	Walk a Mile

Dismas curled into the table at the corner, more or less blending in with the stains and beer-stench of the bar. That suited him fine. The longer he spent sitting here, nursing the same pint, the longer it would be before he had to go back into the snow. 

He wriggled his toes in his boots and grimaced. Still sopping wet. He glanced over to the fire. It was guttering down, not worth giving up his place in the corner for. He liked being able to see all the room.

Dismas tilted his head up as he heard a recognisable stride, and watched fondly as Reynauld stomped in. Still in heavy armour, and maybe at least it kept the damp out. Lucky bastard. 

The crusader looked around the bar. His helmet angled towards Dismas and then stayed there, and Reynauld started walking toward him, stern and determined like he was on a battlefield.

Dismas gave him a nod then took another swig of beer so he wasn’t staring.

He was on the last bitter dregs when Reynauld made his way up to him. Dismas dragged his eyes reluctantly up to the man’s face – mask – without lingering on his heavy armoured form on the way, because he was smarter than that.

Reynauld dropped a parcel in front of him, wrapped in wax paper.

“Bringing in your own food? Smart man,” Dismas said. “Think their sausages ain’t made of pig, if you get my meaning.”

Reynauld sighed. “Your tongue never stops wagging,” he said in a grumble, lifting up armoured hands to tear through the wrapping. Dismas bit back the first five responses he thought of.

“Beer would keep it busy,” he said instead, lifting his empty glass hopefully.

Reynauld huffed, just audible through the mask. He pushed the parcel across the table to Dismas. “I have something better in mind.”

Dismas dropped his chin to his fist lazily, inspecting it. “What’s this then.”

“It’s a book,” Reynauld said, staring at him.

“Fuck you,” Dismas said amicably. “Fuck your ma and fuck your ma’s dog. I know it’s a book.”

Reynauld stood tense and silent for a count of five, then settled down opposite him, dragging the chair out roughly before he threw himself into it. Dismas grinned. He had a bet with himself about how far he could go before Reynauld punched him.

So far Reynauld never had, which was for the best. Paracelsus’s poultices and Junia’s prayers wouldn’t do much for missing teeth.

“They’re prayers,” Reynauld said, tapping one finger on the cover of the book. “It will be good for you.”

Dismas stared down at the book. He didn’t really have his letters, but he could make out the churchy looking script, sure enough. And the cover was plain brown, the pages thick. A serious book, not one of the exciting chapbooks with murders.

Dismas bit his gloved hand to suppress it, but then Reynauld tapped the cover of the book again and nodded importantly, and Dismas couldn’t hold it in: the laughter spilled out helplessly around his hand. He sat there shaking with laughter, no doubt loosened by the beer, as Reynauld went tense with anger.

“Sorry,” Dismas spluttered around his hand. He looked at the book fondly. “Prayers! You trying to save my soul?”

“Maybe,” Reynauld said. He sounded stiff, and spoke quietly. Not angry then, his anger tended to be booming and fierce and short-lived. “Would that be so wrong?”

Dismas lifted his glass to him. “Go for a beer next time, my friend,” he said.

The bartender strode over, wearing a torn apron and hi usual scowl. “Anything for you gentlemen?” he said pointedly. 

Dismas looked at Reynauld in vague hopes of a free round. “A glass of milk for me,” Reynauld said and Dismas snorted out another laugh.

“You’re a damn funny man,” he said. Reynauld only winced a little bit.

“You could at least try,” he said sternly. Dismas chortled. He was never this hopeful without a pint and a half in him, but: Reynauld wouldn’t still be sitting by him if he was as pissed off by Dismas as he always acted. Wouldn’t still stand by him.

“I’m trying,” Dismas said. He figured Reynauld knew. Hoped he knew. “Trying all the time, seeking redemption, all that. Drink your milk, big man.”

Reynauld sat there, probably eyeing him sulkily, then lifted off the helmet and did, taking careful sips. Dismas dropped his head onto his crossed arms and drowsed in the comfortable silence. He didn’t want to go back outside.

After what felt like a few minutes Reynauld kicked him in the shin and Dismas startled up, glaring at him. “Steel boots!” he snapped.

Reynauld drew back a little. At least he looked abashed. “It’s getting late,” he said, which was probably what Reynauld thought counted as subtle.

Dark as pitch outside, which didn’t make the prospect of braving the snow any more appealing. “I’m best suited to dark nights and dark deeds,” Dismas said, then yawned hugely.

Reynauld stood, pulling his helmet back on. “Grimauld won’t like you sleeping in his tavern,” he said. “Up you get.”

Dismas mumbled something disagreeable. Reynauld walked around the table, arm out in the threat of support, and Dismas heaved himself to his feet, rubbing at his eyes. He walked along the table then staggered back to grab the book, stuffing it in his coat, under a few layers of cloth where he kept his spare bullets.

He turned to see Reynauld staring fixedly at him, hard to read through the helm.

Dismas patted at the book to make sure it was safe then dropped his hand. “Layer against the cold,” he said when he couldn’t think of anything else.

“Of course,” Reynauld said, happily.

They went out into the cold. At least the wind didn’t bite through his tattered jacket. Wind wasn’t the problem. Dismas tucked his chin into his scarf and stomped his shoes against the ground, sighing as the mushed grey snow soaked through.

Reynauld was waiting, a pillar of nobility untouched by the elements. Dismas fell into squelching step beside him.

He could still feel the knight’s happiness, and it made him grouchy. “I’m not going to read it,” he warned.

Reynauld nodded, torchlight shining off his helmet as they passed by residences. “I had not … realised that you might not be able to read,” he said. Dismas made no answer to that. Reynauld might not be nobility, but he was schooled by them. Bad enough. Reynauld coughed. “I could read it to you?”

Dismas snorted. “Sure, sure,” he said. “How ‘bout you don’t?”

“There is no … shame in not knowing how to—”

“Plenty shame in not knowing when to _shut up_ ,” Dismas said sharply, and elbowed him. It just hit off the armour of course, and he rubbed at his arm, wincing.

Reynauld shoved him back, and it was probably meant to be gentle but it still sent him stumbling into a snowdrift.

Dismas kept his balance but swore, loud and viciously and appreciating how Reynauld winced back with each particularly inventive curse. He stomped back out snow-damp to the knees with his shoes soaked through, and prowled the rest of the way in fine black temper. Reynauld didn’t try to talk to him again. 

Back in the barracks Reynauld passed him a clean rag, while Dismas was prying his shrivelled feet out of the corpses of his shoes. Dismas grunted in thanks as he passed by to the washroom, drying off so he didn’t die from chill overnight. 

So he unbent enough to bid him goodnight with a, “Light watch over you, or however that goes,” and then had to turn away from the brilliant radiance of Reynauld’s smile.

Reynauld fell asleep faster, career soldier and all. Dismas waited until he was sure he was out and could hear him snoring to pull out the little prayer book and tuck it under his thin pillow.

He couldn’t say his dreams were any more blessed or less sinful and grim, but it was the thought that counted. Nice that Reynauld had thought of him at all, even if he’d gifted him something so laughably unfitted. 

Made sense with what the two of them were, come to that. Chance-met on the Old Road and thrown together, working well together in battle, but … unsuited. Just too different. Reynauld’s smile didn’t throw Dismas off so badly because he was a handsome man, though he was that. He had his flaws same as anyone, chips in his teeth and a break in his nose, jaw a touch too broad, eyes close-set. It was just that the intensity with which he felt things shone right out of him, and it put Dismas to shame. 

He didn’t sleep too well.

A few missions later he had nearly put the whole thing out of his mind. He’d shot a few skeletons and been stabbed by a few things, and taken his turn to rest in the hamlet. Upgraded his pistol, which he was glad of. Always felt better with a good piece in hand.

The market was in the square, a few dismal-looking vegetables sitting shrivelled in their baskets. That was the only reason he was loitering there when the carriage came back.

Junia the vestal stepped out, her arm wrapped around the limping form of that ragged and haunted man Dismas hadn’t spoken to much yet, the one all clad in chains. He leaned heavily against her, but didn’t look too close to death. Barristan stomped out after them, his face bloodied but his movements free, no serious injuries.

Dismas let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when Reynauld stepped out after them, hale and whole with nothing worse than a few dents in his armour.

Dismas loitered a little closer, and Reynauld made his way towards him. He took off his helmet, tucking it under his arm and looking at Dismas inquisitively. His beard had grown back in again, a few days’ worth of it, scratchy-looking and silly.

“You’re back,” Dismas said. His voice was far too glad. He coughed and added, “Still owe me that beer.”

“I do not,” Reynauld said, but he was smiling. He placed his hand on Dismas’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “I must speak to our employer, but I would like to share a drink with you later, friend.”

 _Friend_. It fizzed all through him, and damned if that wasn’t ridiculous. Affection did strange things to a man, made him act young again. Made him act foolish. He’d keep an eye on it.

“I’ll see if I’m free,” Dismas said loftily, and stepped back to watch as the battered party made their way through the gathered crowd.

He bought a couple of turnips for something to do, and made his way back to the barracks. He’d already burned through as much gunpowder practicing as he allowed himself.

Dismas dropped the vegetables off in the kitchen and chatted with Paracelsus a little, while she cooked up something dreadful-smelling in a large and bubbling pot. He didn’t feel that much like people though, and it smelt vile. He went up to pass the time darning the holes in his socks.

That was the problem with having holes in his shoes. Wore through his socks as well. He was nearly out of thread, which was never good. At least it was dry today, just cold.

The second sock was nearly done when Reynauld made his way up to the rows of bunks, helmet under one arm. He took off his breastplate too, and laid it carefully down on his bunk, then smiled up at Dismas. Dismas stowed his needle away and rolled over to look lazily down on him.

“I have something to show you,” Reynauld said. He took off his gauntlets too and put them carefully on his bed. It was probably killing him not to polish and clean them properly right away. Ponce. Dismas grinned fondly.

Reynauld reached into his bag and pulled something out, setting it on the floor for Dismas’s inspection. Dismas squinted. Boots of polished black leather, sturdy and very well made, the kind of thing Dismas would have readily shot a man to steal a few months ago.

Nothing like Reynauld’s heavy steel-toed boots, though. “Bit smaller than your usual stompers, ain’t they?” Dismas remarked.

He looked up to see Reynauld smiling at him. Looking almost nervous. “That would be because they’re for you,” Reynauld said. He shifted restlessly, and clasped his hands behind his back, avoiding Dismas’s eyes. “I mean, I bought them for you.”

At that Dismas rolled down off his bunk, blinking at him. “For me?” he said and glanced at where he’d tossed his shoes, off in a corner, riddled with holes. “Well … I appreciate that, Reynauld, but you didn’t need to …” His throat closed up, and he frowned down at the ground. The last thing he needed was Reynauld’s pity.

Reynauld shifted a little closer to him, but only a little, and then just stood there. “Dismas?” he said after a moment.

Dismas tugged his scarf up over his face, frowning. “What is this,” he said, and looked at Reynauld, not quite meeting his eyes. Reynauld’s eyes were big and hurt which did not help, damn him. Dismas crossed his arms. “Next step in your campaign to save my soul?” he said harshly. “Getting me gifts won’t make me throw myself on your God’s mercy, knight.”

Reynauld lifted his hands up, palms-out. “No no,” he blurted. He paused. “I mean, I would … like that …”

Dismas sighed and turned his back on him, putting a hand on his bunk ready to haul himself back up.

“But I like you fine as you are, Dismas, that is not why I bought them, I just wanted you to have something good,” Reynauld said loudly and fast.

Dismas paused, bit his lip, got control of his face before he turned back around. Reynauld was gazing at him, wringing his hands together. Big eyes blinking, scratchy beard making him look scruffy but still terribly earnest and sincere. 

Dismas swallowed. “Alright, alright,” he said, making it come out calm and easy. “Cheers, then.”

Reynauld smiled like Dismas was the one giving _him_ a ridiculously thoughtful present.

The knight picked up the boots. “Don’t thank me before we’re sure they fit,” he said, and bent down to put them on the ground in front of Dismas, then glanced up at him expectantly.

“Right,” Dismas said, not anywhere near as calmly. He stuck his hands into the heels and slid his feet into the new boots, one after the other.

Of course the fit was perfect. 

And the knight was still down there crouched at his feet. Reynauld hummed to himself and shifted into a kneeling position.

Dismas clenched his hands in tight fists, flushing. Reynauld knelt and reached out, tying the laces with a look of concentration on his face.

The closeness of him. Dismas trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“Fuck,” Dismas said and as Reynauld looked up at him frowning Dismas reached down and grabbed him by the shoulders, hauling him up to kiss him soundly.

Reynauld’s mouth was soft and surprised, and Dismas tilted his face so the beard scratched against his face. He shifted his hand, one gripping tight on Reynauld’s shoulder but one resting on his face, moving him for a better angle.

He pulled back for a brief moment to check. Reynauld’s eyes were half-lidded, mouth half-open, his lips swollen and red. He looked dazed, dizzy. He met Dismas’s eyes and nodded.

Dismas grinned, sharp, triumphant, and leaned back in, taking Reynauld’s lower lip in his teeth and nipping lightly, then running his tongue over the spot, running his tongue over Reynauld’s lips, opening his mouth to his. Reynauld moaned against him and kissed back, wrapping an arm gingerly around his waist. Dismas crooned encouragement to him, tracing his thumb along his fine sharp jaw, kissing the life out of him.

When he pulled back for breath Reynauld was panting and flushed and Dismas was secretly, viciously glad of how close to the bunks they were. Dismas tangled his fingers in Reynauld’s hair, for something to do.

Reynauld leaned his head into the touch, smiling so bright. “I was wondering how long it would take you,” he said.

Dismas blinked, then snorted. He knocked their foreheads together. “You could’ve just made the first move,” he said, because he didn’t want to waste the time they had in thinking about how long he might have been allowed to kiss Reynauld like that.

“I got you a prayer book,” Reynauld said, frowning. Dismas fell just a little more.

“I meant the first proper move, you nonce,” Dismas said and kissed him again to demonstrate. Reynauld took a little more initiative this time, kissing him carefully but hungrily, exploring the corners of his mouth. Dismas tugged his scarf further down, and Reynauld smiled into his mouth and pressed a light kiss to his neck, hesitantly, then another on the corner of his mouth, and Dismas tugged him closer into the kiss.

He backed them up just a little, and Reynauld might have been the one to goddamn _woo_ him but Dismas knew this part. He toed out of the shoes again like an expert, steering them until his back hit the bunks. Reynauld kissed soft against his mouth, rubbing his hand along Dismas’s back.

Dismas leaned back to nip at his jaw. “No, it was sweet somehow,” he said into Reynauld’s ear, then kissed his ear too. He leaned back to grin at him. “Sleep with the book under my pillow.”

Reynauld’s smile went even broader, if that was possible. “You do?” he said softly, sounding awed. He rested his hand on Dismas’s face like Dismas was made of glass. Nice, but not quite what he wanted.

Dismas got both hands in his shirt and tugged. He lifted his eyebrows, grinning, and patted his bunk. “Yeah, come see,” he said, and Reynauld flushed even redder, but kissed him again, smiling into it, and then to Dismas’s surprise but not displeasure lifted him up in his arms so he could haul them both up together.


End file.
